The battlefield burned in white.
The Purging Flame spread across the necro-soil like a tide of searing judgment, reducing roots of bone into smoke, dissolving the flesh-growths that had sprouted like tumors, and turning entire ranks of undead into drifting ash. The valley—once a cathedral of rot and despair—now shone with blinding radiance, as if a false dawn had been hammered down over the night by stubborn, mortal hands.
The Silver Banner soldiers roared in triumph. Their morale surged as shadows burned. Hope, fragile and desperate, sparked in their eyes at the sight of horror finally faltering. Spearmen lifted their shafts to the glare; archers loosed by reflex, even though arrows bent in the heat; captains shouted prayers they only half-remembered.
At the center of their formation, mounted high upon a warhorse clad in steel, the Purifier priest raised his staff. His voice was thunder over the din of battle, each word a hammer striking the anvil of faith.
